


indelicate

by smithens



Series: en l'année 1830 [6]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Arguing, Canon Era, Ficlet, Gen, Injury Recovery, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 21:18:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10557860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: There are conversations which are grating to listen to over and over and over again.





	

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on Tumblr as an outtake from another fic in this verse. I don't think it fits well with the direction of the series at this point either but figured i'd put it on ao3, too. :)

Enjolras takes a shallow, quavering breath at Combeferre’s feather-light, absurdly-tentative touch to his shoulder.

Joly looks at him quizzically.

“Your arm?” he asks, because although there is less swelling now he does have a sling for a reason, and perhaps the pain can be felt even with Combeferre’s great heed in showing any physical attention to Enjolras.

“Is it your chest?” says Combeferre simultaneously, more comprehension in his face than Joly feels is warranted.

“No.” Enjolras’s brow furrows, his eyes squint a little - a tic Joly hadn’t ever noticed until a week or so prior. His voice is soft, but somehow he cannot help but feel he is being chastised. “My leg.” He stops speaking, but his lips stay parted, like his thoughts are continuing instead of his speech.

Any suggestion of laudanum or even brandy will earn nothing more than a glare, and Joly has seen enough of those for a lifetime, so he bumps his shoulder into Combeferre’s own and goes to the table to watch the unfolding discussion instead of partake in it.

Combeferre adjusts his spectacles with two fingers and sits on the edge of the bed. “You did walk today.”

“Hm,” replies Enjolras, his head turned toward the ceiling, not Combeferre.

“A fair good deal, for a man who has been confined to bed rest.”

“Confined by whom?”

Joly taps his fingers on the side of his chair and wishes that leaving were an appropriate action. There are conversations which are grating to listen to over and over and over again, particularly when one’s presence is only required for a medical second opinion.

“Enjolras, you have muscle spraining in two -”

“I also have a pulmonary infection, yes? Are they alike?”

“Enjolras -”

“Would you like some laudanum?” interrupts Joly.

And perhaps his presence is required to alleviate tension, also.

Both of them glare at him, but Enjolras softens sooner than Combeferre does.

“No? Well. I have a prior engagement, so if that is all…”

Combeferre looks at him as though to say, you cannot be serious.

Enjolras nods: he’s relaxed, at least on the outside.

“Thank you,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Joly says, mumbling more to his feet than to Enjolras - and as much as he can empathize, as much as he can infer, he is too proud to apologize to Combeferre.

There is a reason the rest of them avoid discussing Enjolras’s injury in his presence, and at this point, it is not fear.

Feeling awkward, he clasps Combeferre on the shoulder, then leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> [find me on tumblr as [smithensy](http://smithensy.tumblr.com/)]


End file.
